


Dancing in  the Dark

by Neotorious



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe - No Powers, Bad Decisions, Cross-Posted on Wattpad, Diary/Journal, Ghost Bucky Barnes, Ghost logic, Ghosts, How Do I Tag, I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping, I mean it, Light Angst, M/M, My First Fanfic, Oblivious Steve Rogers, One Shot, POV First Person, POV Steve Rogers, Paranormal, Post-Serum Steve Rogers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-07
Updated: 2019-04-07
Packaged: 2020-01-06 12:32:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,059
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18388526
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Neotorious/pseuds/Neotorious
Summary: Most things happen in the dark, and from the things that you could see to the people that you could meet in the dead of night something just might surprise you.And maybe, just maybe, they could even change your world. For better or worse? Well.. Who's to really say?Sometimes it all starts with meeting a stranger during the witching hour. The night doesn't always have malice.





	Dancing in  the Dark

**Author's Note:**

> 👉👈 guys I literally came up with this whilst eating a bowl of cheerios okay. I actually wrote this instead of sleeping so I'm tired of fUck and I'm sorry if this is shitty but I've never written in first person so I just thought I'd try something new.
> 
> I only proofread this like five times so any spelling/grammar mistakes are all on me. I'm still fixing the grammar n shit so bare with me :")
> 
> In this story, Steve's a bit of a dumbass and makes some poor decisions, he's lucky he's not the ghost instead.
> 
> I strongly suggest that you listen to I (Don't) Care and Vaseline by Mowbeck as you read! (No links cuz I can't get them to work)

_I mean it when I say that don't know where to start, but all stories have to start somewhere; so I guess I'll start here.._ One night—a chilly November night—I was out fishing on the river dock because I heard that sometimes it's better to fish at night. Time had gotten away from me, and the next thing I knew it was five minutes past midnight. I forgot how long I had been out there but either way I was disappointed in myself for two reasons. The first one being that I had caught not a single fish that entire time (and let's be honest I'm not actually a good fisherman). The second reason was the simple fact that it was midnight for Christ's sake!

But it was that very night that I had met a man. A mysterious, ghostly looking man of which I've never seen the likes of before. Not in town, not on the bus, not out on my morning runs, nowhere. He seemed so out of place. Yet, despite this, there was not a single off putting thing about him. It's almost funny to think that there was a time that I had no idea what this man looked liked or who he was or what he even sounded like; now I can't get him out of my head. I still remember almost every detail about him. From the way his greyish blue eyes always seemed so tired (rightfully so, he had noticeable dark circles around his eyes) to his small fidgets, I remember.

Our fist encounter on that November night will always be engraved in my mind too. After I found out what time it was I had begun to put my items away so I could leave when the air suddenly became very still and the hair on my body stood on end. Not only that, but I felt a little bit more cold as well. I stopped what I was doing and just stood there for a bit because the sudden change was a bit unnerving. That's when a man's voice came from behind me. _"What are you doing out here so late?"_ He asked, and I jumped. I swear my heart stopped for a good three seconds. I never heard any footsteps behind me.

The man didn't sound aggressive, just concerned—and now that I think of it, I could've asked him the same thing. After all, we were both out there. A pair of fools hanging by a river at twelve in the morning. Instead of that—that is when I actually got my breathing together and I managed to turn around to face the man—I simply said "Time got away from me, is all. I think you can already tell but I came out here to fish.. I'm pretty piss poor at it." And the man smiled small, nodding his head and expressing how he knew how that felt after apologising for spooking me so badly. He said that it wasn't his intention and I, too, laughed. The man was somewhat pale, was just an inch or two shorter than me. He had short brown hair and had a handsome, memorable face. Dressed like he was out of touch with current fashion (and underdressed for the cold), but he made it work. Oh, he was a bit scruffy too. Just a little bit.

Maybe I'm not completely sane for failing  to be critical and cautious around a man that practically snuck up on me in the darkness of the night, and if someone were to ask me why on earth that I wasn't, I really couldn't say. Because even I don't know why for sure. But there was something about that man that was warm and inviting in the weirdest way that I can't even put into words. It was calming. It drew me to him. It was mystifying. Had it been anyone else who pulled the same stunt as him I would've been apprehensive. That man did things to me, I just couldn't tell right then and there. I thought nothing of it at the time. But I know now.

Call me an idiot, call me a fool, call me anything of the sort, 'cause I know I am. After such a brief exchange of words conversation between us ensured. It was strange—the way the conversation came to us so naturally and flowed steadily even as we were trying to find common ground to expand on the things we could talk about. "I'm Steve by the way" I had said to him at some point as we sat beside each other on very edge the dock. "Well, it's a pleasure, Steve." He said in response. I remember how I paused for a couple of seconds afterwards. I expected him to give me his name as well—he never told me. It was one of the only awkward pauses during our entire time of conversing. 

Excluding his name, I learned a few things about the man that night. Well, most of those things were based off of an inference but either way I felt like I had an understanding for him in a way. The most prominent things about him were that he was a bit of a recluse (and at the time I thought that explained why I've never seen him before), he seemed rather lonesome, he used very dated slang, he really liked his personal space, and he claimed to be not much of a talker. If I'm being honest, I found that hard to believe seeing as we were chatting up a storm on the dock. Then again, he did seem more interested in me speaking about myself than him his.

For the second time, time had slipped away from me. I was enjoying myself way too much chatting with this stranger about anything and just about everything, sharing tales, telling each other about ourselves, and everything in between (by the way, we had a lot in common. He was an old soul, just like me). I didn't even realise how late it was getting until the man had taken a glance at my watch, stood up, pointed to it, and announced "I think I should get going now. Maybe you should too, it's almost two in the morning. I'm sorry for holding you up for so long."

I'd be lying if I said that I didn't feel the least bit surprised. It only felt like we had been talking for only ten minutes, not an hour or so! I must've had a weird look on my face as I stood up as well and gathered my things because the man noticeably snickered before I said something along the lines of "Oh— oh that's pretty damn late. Yeah, I should be on my way." I had almost forgot to reassure the man that he didn't hold me up at all and that I didn't mind in the slightest.

He smiled again. I already liked seeing him smile. Before we parted, I offered him my phone number in a friendly gesture. But he was quick to make it known that he did not have a phone. I couldn't tell if he just didn't want to give me his number or if he genuinely didn't have a phone, but based off of the little I knew about him so far it sure as hell did sound like a very "him" kind of thing.

"It was nice meeting you, Steve" He had soon said. It's worth mentioning that the entire time he had held a grey cap in his hand. He placed the cap upon his head, grabbed the brim of his hat, tipped his head, said "have a good night, be careful on the way home", and began to walk away. This time, I heard his footsteps. I had been stuck between asking his name before he left and simply saying good night as well, and because of that I made a very brief weird noise as I tried to figure out which one to say before I settled on "you too". It felt like forever. It had only been three seconds.

Now, I know this is going to sound so mundane but this is a really important part of our encounter. Before I went to take my leave as well, I stopped to tie the laces of my boots and gave them all of my attention instead of the man. Yes, I'm honestly bringing up the fact that I had to _tie my shoes._ But there's a reason for it. By the time I had gotten on to my other shoe the air felt the way it had before the man showed up, slightly breezy. There was also didn't feel as cold (I'm pretty sure that I already mentioned that it was November). When I finally stood back up straight, grabbed my things once more, and went to walk away.. The man was lost to the night. No where to be seen. My fatigue made many excuses as to how. I can't remember a single one. I went home that night—morning? Whatever—with one question on my mind. Would it be possible to see that man again? And thus began the most interesting month of my life

So I did it all again the next night. I didn't even want to fish but I brought my gear yet again to use it as an excuse if he really did show up again (and no, I never did fish. I sat and read a book on the docks that entire time) I don't know why I thought that he would show in the first place, and I acknowledge the fact that I'm a goddamn moron for waiting for some man—whose name I didn't even know—in the darkness of the night. But there was a feeling in my gut that just told me that he would show, that he wasn't dangerous (even though I was putting myself at risk for some other person to come along out of the shadows).

I wasn't being practical but it was _intuition_. I _wanted_ to see the man again. So I waited. I waited, and eventually I checked my watch. Fifteen minutes past twelve. I had gotten there somewhere around 11:30. I knew I was being rash with all of this. And it was especially ridiculous how I was willing to wait just five more minutes. Five more minutes and then I would go home. But as I came to that conclusion that's when the air went still, my hairs stood on end, and I shivered for just a moment.

 _"Back again?"_ " Came from behind me, it was laced with a small laugh. Of course it still caused me to jump, but not as much as the day before because it was something I was expecting. I knew it was him, that man out of time. When I tore my eyes from my book and turned my head to face him he stood leaning against one of the taller wooden pillars at the beginning of the dock with a cocked brow and a smile—a look of confusion but interest overall (now, at the time it never quite clicked for me that he was sporting the same clothes as the night before. I guess that wasn't important to me) "Timekeeping's not really my thing, it seems." It told him in response; a blatant (but harmless) lie.

After that, the rest was history. We chatted the night away on the dock once more. It was clear as day that we enjoyed each other's company, joking and laughing like we were. And before we parted ways yet again, it was then that I had made an agreement with the man to come back again around the same time; somewhere around 12am. I had work in the mornings, but I wouldn't mind the fatigue. "I'm very busy during the day." Was what he told me. "But I come out here every night to clear my head, I suppose." I had figured that he must've lived nearby. "Even on the weekends?" I asked "Even on the weekends." He affirmed.

The man had asked me if it was too much trouble, said I didn't have to come if it was. I was quick to say no, told him I'd come. He seemed pleased with my answer, and with that he placed his cap on his head and rose to his feet. "Then I guess I'll be seeing you tonight. Have a safe trip, Steve." He said before he began to take his leave for the night. On the other hand, I had said my farewells as well but I remained seated on the dock for just a little while longer. The breeze soon came steadily and once more the abnormal chill was gone. I took no notice. Eventually, when I made my way back home, once more I had left without having learned the man's name. It just casually slipped my mind to ask.

From that night on, I came to the river dock every night before twelve without fail. Every night, the man would show some time after. Every night, he would always leave before 2am. Most times he left before me, but sometimes it was me who left first. The two of us, we never ran out of things to talk about. Even in those times when we were sitting in comfortable silence, taking in the sights. Half of the time we would sit on the very end of the dock, the other half was spent walking along the riverbank.

The man always kept his distance from me, we never made physical contact. Even though we were comfortable with one another I could tell that he did not want to be touched. I respected that and ever tried. Never went to shake his hand, never went to pat him on the back, never placed a hand on his shoulder, nothing. I could tell he appreciated it.

Now, remember how I mentioned his sheer presence being so damn inviting and charming? It's hard not to fall for that, really hard. I hate to admit it, but at some point I found myself blundering around him from time to time. I felt like a fool. I didn't even know his name and I saw him only at night. But it couldn't be helped. I'd be lying through my teeth if I said that I didn't feel something for him.

And I'm pretty _damn_ sure he knew because of the way he looked at me too. Not to mention the fact that sometimes when my hand was out in the open, he would move his arm as if he were going to reach for my exposed hand before he reconsidered it. He swore I never noticed. Even though I could've done the exact same, I never broke my 'no touching' rule.. _Even if I really wanted to._

I distinctly remember how one night when we were walking the river in silence, the man had asked me out of the blue "Hey, Steve, if you don't mind me asking.. Do you have a dame at home?" I still cannot believe how quickly I blurted out a _no._ "If I did, I don't think I'd be out of the house every night until 2am, you know?" The man nodded his head, told me that that makes sense and that I'm absolutely right. What he said afterwards always makes my heart jump, just a bit.

He had said "I'd imagine that a fellow like you'd have the ladies come running. Just look at you! I'm a bit surprised." And, of course, I asked (a bit too quickly yet again) "What about you? Any lucky lady?" I'll never forget how flustered he seemed before he announced "no, I could never find the right one." Although I'll never forget that, I don't remember what I said afterwards, but I know that we didn't discuss it for long before we fell comfortably silent again. We were both smiling small. I'm pretty sure I felt my ears heat up. My mind harped on the word "could" but it never made anything out of it.

I saw that man for a good month or so from mid November to mid December. Still, I didn't know his name. He always avoided the subject. Still, I never saw him during the day. Not only that, but we avoided our blatant feelings for each other. We never addressed it. We never really had to. I thought it was better that way. But that was short lived.

The very last time I saw the man was December 22nd. The night sky was clear, the moon was full, and my (final) night with the man was drawing to a close. That night was the most we've ever talked, and the longest too. This time, it was going on 3am. That night, I had noticed that the (still unnamed) man who harboured my affections seemed less pale, less tired, and was willing to stand much closer to me than before. It was absolutely freezing but the man wore nothing aside from the light jacket that he always did, unzipped. I on in the night I had questioned him about it once. He avoided the question (he did that a lot). I never brought it up again.

We were walking along the riverbank on our way back to the dock (because our walks always ended where they began). For the longest time, we had been engaged in a fruitful conversation, so it was really nothing new. There was colour in the man's cheeks for most of it.  By the time we reached the dock once more I had expected him to say his goodbyes and goodnights—per usual—but instead he gestured for me to follow him, and I did so without question. He led me to the end of the dock and together we stood there—quietly—staring at the moon. He was the first to speak. I remember it verbatim.

"Steve, you're a _wonderful_ man and I sure as hell hope you know that." He had said as he turned his head towards me. He paused, but I didn't speak because I knew he had more to say. "I can't explain it, but I wish I met a man like you a long, _long_ time ago." Then there was silence. I mustered the courage to tell him that I knew how he felt, that I felt the same. I couldn't explain it. We talked about it for a bit before he added "I'm not sure what it is." Then he paused. "But at the same time, I'm pretty damn sure we're in love." That's what finally made me turn to him. For the first time, our eye contact felt unbearable. The man seem troubled, but so did I.

 _"Maybe."_ I had said as I tore my eyes away from him to focus back on the moon, he followed suit. It all felt so surreal. Confessing to love as I stood on the dock and stared at the moon with the ground and trees coated in a light snow that had fell maybe two or three days ago and the river beginning to freeze over. It didn't feel real, but it was quite possibly the realest thing that I would ever experience. We fell silent once more. I don't think either one of us knew what to do. Suddenly, I heard the man speak quietly. _"James"_ he said, his eyes on me yet again. I think it's only natural that I responded by expressing my confusion in his word. "You used to ask me what my name was. I know you gave up because I never told you but.. My name is James. James Buchanan Barnes. But please, call me Bucky."

His name. The very _notion_ of his name had completely slipped my mind. I thought that when I finally found it out, that it would feel momentous, grand. But it didn't.  It felt as if he had introduced himself just like I did when we first met. It felt plain, but at the same time it felt special. Now armed with a name to associate him with, I felt like I truly knew the man. I felt like I truly knew James. I felt like I truly knew _Bucky._

"Why'd you wait so long to tell me?" I had asked him and "I don't know" was all he said. We made eye contact again. This time, it felt like I was looking at him for the first time. A man with a name, and his name was Bucky. "Bucky." I whispered. I was trying his name out on my lips. "It's a pleasure to meet you, Bucky. I'm Steven Grant Rogers." I said a little louder this time, and Bucky caught on to the joke immediately. He smiled a broad closed lip smile and so did I.

I was honestly glad that the bout of awkwardness had came and went as if it were never there at all. Because it was there that we stood, comfortably silent once more and merely gazing at each other under the light of the moon in the cold. It felt like something straight out of a movie, if I'm telling the truth. "I think it's time for me to leave.. Thank you." Bucky had said. "For what?" was, of course, the first thing that came to my mind. He shook his head, dismissing his statement before he said "Never mind, its nothing."

Normally, not even a second after he said that he was leaving, Bucky would do just that. Leave. But not this time. He lingered around as if he really wasn't sure if he wanted to go. I watched carefully as he took a half step to turn away, but retreated from the action to face me fully. "C'mere, Stevie." He had whispered to me, and the next thing I knew it his ghostly lips were on mine, and I closed my eyes. I say ghostly because it was yet another thing that didn't feel real but I mean it when I say that they felt like everything I thought they would and more, soft and lush. I remember very briefly breaking the kiss to say an 'I love you'.

Although the kiss was tender, a few seconds after it had begun I felt a powerful sadness overwhelm me and a sudden rush of tears spilling from my still closed eyes (something in me told me not to open my eyes just yet). Bucky knew this. He placed a loving hand to my cheek with a touch that was feathery light. Yet another thing that felt like it wasn't there. He broke the kiss but continued to rest his hand on me, wiping the tears with his thumb. I didn't know it was possible to cry so much for apparently no reason. I was yet to open my eyes when I heard a hushed "Steve Rogers, I love you." I felt him slip something into my pocket before a somewhat strong gust of wind came and his touch was suddenly gone without having showed any signs of him moving his hand away. It felt almost like something quickly dissipating on my skin.

That's what made me open my eyes, I mean it when I say that it alarmed me. I opened my eyes to see nothing. Bucky was gone with the wind, he belonged to the night. I probably should've said this earlier, but I never believed in the paranormal until that very moment. Almost everything about James Buchanan Barnes should've at least tipped me off to _something._

I felt like—and still feel like—and idiot for not putting two and two together. So I stood there dumbfounded and trying to over that (at the time) unexplainable sadness that was sent through me. I couldn't breathe. All of it was so goddamn  unbelievable. I strongly considered the fact that I was probably schizophrenic and I never even knew it. Even though I had none of the symptoms or anything of the sorts just maybe I was because apparently, _anything_ was possible that night.

But that's when I remembered that Bucky had slipped something into my pocket, and with a shaky hand I dug in there before my fingers latched onto something that felt a bit dated and possibly torn in a few places. I didn't want to see what it was, but I pulled it out anyway. And there he was. James Buchanan Barnes—Bucky in a very old and dirty picture in black and white. There he stood, in a military uniform (which, of course, wasn't the clothes that I always saw him in) with a smile on his face so big that I could see the dimple on his cheek. I still wonder what he was smiling about. I turned the photo around to see in black pen _June 6, 1944_

Everything seemed like a blur after that, but I remember dragging myself home and getting on my laptop not even a minute after getting through the door. Frantically, I typed in the ghostly man's name and it took a while before I found public records on him, but I found them all the same. James Buchanan Barnes, born March 10, 1917. Died January 15, 1945. Age 27 (I already knew that). Orphaned (and that). Served in the military, honourable discharge (and that). Cause of death: drowning. Drowning in that very same river that I visited every night. Suddenly, those few times that Bucky had said something along the lines of _"drowning's a helluva thing Steve, a helluva thing I tell ya"_ had so much more meaning.

And I'll never forget the words I came across soon enough.

_"James Barnes was speculated to be a possible homosexual, foul play suspected in his death."  
_

Dear god, I swear that I felt my heart absolutely shatter in that moment. I had taken a break from my reading after that. 

I'm not going to talk about it anymore than this. I'm still not ready to address it. I don't think I ever will be.

So change of subject. Now that I think of it, I also forgot to mention that—at the time—I had just recently moved to where I'm currently living. James Barnes? He was an urban legend, albeit not a very well known one (and to this day I'm thankful for that because had he been well known I probably wouldn't have had such a chance to see him, huh).

Most of the other adults around here heard about it, but not the children. However it was said that he only came out at night during the witching hour (which I soon sound out was the time that we settled on) followed by the bullshit that he'd drag you into the river with a sealed fate or something like that. Reading that made me angered. Bucky would never. I didn't need to spend much time researching him; he told me just about everything about himself in the first place. But I spent some time doing research on ghosts and the like. To this day, was still all so hard to believe.

I found out that he never came close to me or allowed me to touch him (or him I) because he didn't have enough energy for it or something along those lines. The full moon combined with what time it was gave him just enough to touch me— _to kiss me._ I learned that the sadness the surged through me was something that he shared with me through the kiss. I should've been some sort of mad that he would do such a thing to me, I really should've, but I wasn't. I never was. I was glad that we had an understanding that now went deeper. Although I had stopped crying for the most part, I was still shaken to my core (and by the way, it had taken me a month to get over that sadness for the most part. To this very day I still feel it in the pit of my stomach, just not as strongly. Thankfully.)

_Ever since that night, I've never really been the same._

I remember dozing off at my desk that morning. I didn't go to work that morning. I called in sick.

I went back to the dock the next night, and I waited. Waited and Bucky never showed.

The night after that I went back, and Bucky never showed.

I gave it two weeks before I went back the next time. Again, no Bucky.

I gave it a month, but no Bucky.

At some point, I had decided to go back twice every month. Always around or on the number of the date we met.

I write this at.. 12:30am. I write this because I hope to show someone someday. I write this as I sit on the very end of the dock.

Thinking back on everything now, I did a lot of dumb shit and I didn't do a lot of thinking. I guess it was worth it, in a way, but in the end, I'm still the fool who can't get over a dead man who I never knew in his actual life.

I think Bucky would be happy to know that I've taped the photo of him that he gave to me on the back pastedown of this book. I look at it everyday.

_Bucky, are you watching me?_

Sometimes, if I listen closely in the dead of night when I sit outside alone on my porch, I can hear the whisper of _"Steve..."_ in the wind and the rustle of the trees. I'm not sure if I'm really hearing what I think I am though. But I like to think that that's what I hear. I'm not completely sane.

It's been a year, and Bucky is still no where to be seen (aside from the back of this book).

_James Buchanan Barnes was a ghost in the night; an apparition that came and went. For a ghost, he felt pretty damn human. At least to me he did._


End file.
